Erik Discovers the Advantages of Being a Phantom
by Crimson Hint
Summary: A day in the life of the average Phantom! Clothing problems, annoying visitors, and troubling recollections involving lederhosen are just some of the annoyances that an Opera Ghost must face.
1. Article of Clothing Number One:The Cloak

Muwahahahaha! And so it begins, my dear readers. This story is chock full of darkness, angst, and hyperactivity caused by severe lack of caffeine (Whether this last one pertains to me or the Phantom, I'm not quite sure.). My Erik (Mine I tell you!) (Sorry, I had to do that at least once.) is based mostly upon Kay Erik but also touches upon aspects of both Leroux Erik and Webber Erik. He is a sad, lonely, paranoid, andconfused personwho has a psycho side that is extremely disturbing.

Happy reading!

Disclaimer: I take full credit for what me and my mind come up with – things such as characters, bits of exploding scenery, etc. – the rest I give due credit to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and Susan Kay.

**Erik Discovers the Advantages of Being a Phantom**

**Article of Clothing Number One: The Cloak**

Erik stood before the mirror contemplating his reflection. One might call this action preening since the Opera Ghost had been observing his velvet and silk clad self for at least twenty minutes. He would never admit this to himself, though.

Every hair in his glorious mane was in place, creating a shiny mass of sheer blackness, which contrasted with the matte white of the mask. His outfit was pristine - the usual phantom attire with the exception of a new burgundy cravat. He also wore tightly fitting black leather gloves, which were oiled so well that they seemed to have adopted an ethereal glow.

Finally, for the first time in going on a half an hour the Phantom made a move. His long, elegant, shiny black leather clad hand reached out and took hold of his luxurious cape…

…and swished it.

And then swished it again.

Erik stood in front of the glass as if mesmerized. There was something about that cloak that he could not tear his gaze off of.

_The Swishiness_, he thought.

He stepped back from the mirror and gave a little twirl, causing the cloak to fan out and then swirl tightly around his body.

He stopped and as the rich black velvet of the fabric surrounding his person slowly peeled off his arms and legs he stared into his reflection's glowing blue eyes.

_Might I actually look…good?_

You see, his reasoning as to why he had always dressed so impeccably in the past was: _I might as well give people something other to look at than my face. I might not look normal, but I absolutely **will** not give them any place to find fault with other than the mask._

Being so, when our dear Phantom found out that he was, in all actuality, a god among men, he took to the idea like a fish out of water.

Literally.

He took a great, gasping, breath and then sank down onto the ground, his head bowed and his cloak pooling about him. For a while he just sat staring at the ground, fingering the edge of his cloak as if he were a child who had just done something wrong. All that could be heard was the gentle moving of the water out on the lake and the oppressive silence of the tons of rock above his head. Then, with a swift movement he pushed himself off from the ground and strode to the other end of the room. He crossed into his bedroom and went straight for the closet.

It looked as though something exploded, sending a great many articles of clothing flying across the room. Shirts were tossed out and then pants. Shoes were projected into various corners, one landing haphazardly on top of the head of the swan bed. Fedoras, cufflinks, and waistcoats sailed across the bed. Cravats were tossed as far way from the closet as they possibly could be.

All the while, Erik was muttering to himself things such as:

"I _hate_ clothes."

"Goddamn clothes!"

"Maybe I should just go around naked. _That_ would scare the managers half to death. The Mooning Mandan! Yes, that would do nicely."

A loud thud echoed around the cavern sounding suspiciously like a head being hit on solid rock.

"What am I thinking? This is pure stupidity emanating from my brain right now. I'm not in my right mind!"

More thudding, and then,

"Aha!"

He had just found his stash of cloaks.

"You…you…evil piece of fabric. You _ruined my life_!"

"See how you like this! Ahhahahahahahahaha!"

There was a loud ripping sound and:

"Arrrrggggggggggggghhh! It burns, it burns! Oh the pain! Cloth burn is _eeeevil_, I tell you, **evil**!"

"You are going to pay, I swear to God, YOU ARE GOING TO PAY!"

Slowly, the stream of clothes flowing from the closet trickled off. Erik was sitting exhausted on the floor covered in various items that had fallen off the shelves in his rampage and bits of cloak. He was rocking slowly back and forth; crying tears of both joy and anger and his face was contorted into a look of confusion.

If anyone else was in the lair they probably would have thought that he had finally snapped.

_Psychoanalysis of Erik 101: The Erik was in two states known as shock and denial. Shock because he couldn't get over the fact that he had what he had longed for his whole life – he was beautiful despite his face. Disbelief because it had been drilled into him since childhood that he was an ugly monster and he didn't deserve to live and in one minute of standing in front of a mirror (okay, it was more like thirty) that whole idea had been stripped away from his mind._

Uncurling himself from his uncomfortable position on the floor of the closet he dragged himself to the bed and flopped ungracefully down onto it. Clothes puffed up from on top of the covers and landed on the Phantom's prone form, making it seem as if there was a mountain of cloth instead of a man lying there.

As the Opera Ghost drifted off to a nightmare filled sleep the only thought that ran through his head was,

_Why?_


	2. Enter: The Daroga

Disclaimer: I take full credit for what me and my mind come up with – things such as characters, bits of exploding scenery, etc. – the rest I give due credit to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and Susan Kay.

**Enter: The Daroga**

A swarthy complexioned man by the name of Nadir came around the corner of a tunnel leading to one of the many entrances of the underground lake. He looked quite pleased with himself for some odd reason (ahem…disabled Erik's "doorbell" and floated across the lake on a piece of heavy cardboard he found in the prop room of the theatre…ahem). As he entered the sitting room he stopped abruptly, craning his head around to get a better view of his surroundings.

Something was wrong – his Phantom Senses were tingling.

He rushed around the rooms checking for Erik but he was nowhere to be found. He checked in the tiny kitchen off the sitting room and then went through to the eating nook branching off into the hallway. He went into the Louis-Philippe bedroom and also looked in the bathroom adjoining it. He went into storerooms, the music room, and even Erik's bedroom, but all that he found there was a veritable explosion of the Phantom's closet and a huge pile of clothing on the bed.

Going back into the sitting room he plunked down onto a sofa and started massaging his temples.

_There are only two things that might have happened judging by the state of his bedroom,_ he reasoned. _He has gone on a mad rampage through the opera house or is currently hiding out somewhere in this house using one of his tricks and is having a mad laugh at my foolish antics._

A chill ran down his body as he hunched further down into his chair suddenly realizing that those were not the best options to be faced with.

_When he comes back or crawls out of wherever he is hiding he is going to be in a mood._

On full alert he waited for the Phantom to come swooping down on him. Eyes narrowed he looked around the room ready to bolt to the nearest corner if he saw any danger.

He waited…

And waited…

And waited…

Nadir looked up from his hunched over position on the sofa towards the clock.

It was over an hour later and still no sign of Erik.

He snorted, _Might as well go since he is obviously not going to show up. Maybe I should go up to the surface to see if he terrifying the ballet rats._

He sighed, stretched, and then made to get up, but before he could a loud moan escaped from the direction of Erik's bedroom. Startled, the Persian jumped at least two feet into the air, coming close to knocking over a very expensive Chinese vase before almost collapsing again onto the sofa.

Recovering, he quickly made his way out to the hall and then towards the source of the noise. Passing the other doors silently he stopped and pushed open the one he was sure the sound came from behind. As he stepped into the room the clothes on the bed quivered and then another moan was emitted, this time sounding as if the source of it was in extreme agony.

Cautiously, Nadir approached the gigantic mound on the swan bed. He wasn't quite sure if this was a trick of the Phantom or not. As he neared what would have been the head of the bed he caught some movement. Leaning closer he saw a solitary piece of fabric puff up and then gently settle back down. He watched as this action was repeated a few times and then realization dawned.

_By Allah! Erik is sleeping underneath all this._

He plunged his hands into the mound, flailing them around wildly until they met a solidly built shoulder.

A shout went up, "Erik!" and then the Persian began to throw clothing off the bed at superhuman speed, adding even more haphazardly strewn clothing to the mess around the room.

It took about twenty seconds before Erik was completely uncovered, his long form sprawled out on top of the crimson sheets. His head was resting sideways on a pillow; half covering one of his hands and his mask was askew, showing just a hint of what was underneath. The other hand was clenched tightly in the fabric by his side and was slightly shaking from the strain he was putting on the muscles.

As Nadir watched he heaved in a huge breath and then let it out in a hiss, muttering something about a cloak.

Worried now, the Persian shook the Phantom awake.

With a strangled gasp the Opera Ghost came to, quickly flipping his body over and clamping his hands around his friend's neck.

"I hate clothes!"

"I hate them, I _hate_ them, I **_hate_** them!"

With each exclamation Erik's hands tightened drastically. Nadir's eyes bulged out of his head and he started clawing at the vice like grip around his neck.

All the wile Nadir's face was doing some very interesting things. It turned from white to red to purple and then settled on a very peculiar shade of olive green. His lips developed a twitch and spittle flew out of his mouth and covered the oblivious Phantom.

Erik continued the actions of squeezing the Persian's neck to smithereens and hissing like a demented adder until by an extremely large amount of luck Nadir buried his nails in the exact place that the Phantom had his battle wound from the tirade with the cloak.

Erik froze as his face drained of all color.

Then he opened his mouth and emitted a high-pitched, keening (and rather girly) scream and snatched his hands away from Nadir's neck as if scalded.

The Persian slumped down relieved, but before he could gasp in a shaky breath, leather clad hands grabbed him again. This time they were latched on to his suit jacket and cravat.

He got out a pitiful whimper before he was tossed clean across the room, landing in one of the larger piles of clothes.

They puffed up about him and landed, making it look very similar to the position the Phantom was in about five minutes ago.

Meanwhile, after the throw that would make Hollywood stuntmen drop their jaws in openmouthed awe, Erik sunk down on to the bed cradling his left wrist.

Now fully awake and in pain, his brilliant mind was in full throttle, peeling through his predicament.

He looked good.

He admitted his body wasn't in bad shape, but that was not a good enough reason to ignore his face.

Could it be his clothes? That was his number one option so far. Maybe he should get a second opinion.

He glanced over to where the Persian was floundering around in the clothes trying desperately to get up.

_No, definitely not._

He shook his head and scooted off the bed, stood, then headed for the door.

As he reached the threshold his footsteps slowed, then stopped. Reluctantly, he craned his head back to where the Persian was now sitting picking off the last of the clothing that had twisted around his form.

He harrumphed and then turned back, approaching Nadir, who looked up at him with extreme caution.

"Erik _what_ has possessed you?" he spluttered, punching a fist into the fabric at his side.

He unconsciously scooted back as the Phantom came closer.

"_Clothes_ are what have possessed me, Daroga, _clothes_."

He turned to the side, allowing the Persian to get a full view of his lengthy profile.

"I want your opinion on this."

"W…W…What?" the Persian gasped out. "Erik, I don't think…"

"I didn't ask you to _think_, you damned Persian," his tone dripping sarcasm, "I want to know how the clothes make me look." With a flourish, he swept an arm in front of his chest.

Realization dawning, Nadir scrambled up and raked his gaze over the black clad spectre.

_Must have gotten a new cloak._

He frowned,

_Odd, he has never worried this much about his appearance before._

_I mean, in a sense he has, but he has never worried what people thought of his clothes._

_He is usually ranting on about his face._

His brows furrowed,

_I always thought that the ghost apparel was just part of his theatrics._

The Phantom stared on, amused.

It looked like the Persian was having a conversation with himself.

_It's not like I haven't had those before,_ he thought.

He raised an eyebrow at Nadir's expression. It had settled an a look of absolute befuddlement

Now highly amused, Erik raised the other eyebrow and snickered.

This brought the Persian from his revere and he shuddered at the evil sound before plastering on a sickly-sweet grin and saying,

"You look stunning, Erik, absolutely stunning."

With this, a look of unadulterated glee formed in the Phantom's eyes.

The Persian took a sidestep towards the door, feeling an extreme need to get as far way from the man standing next to him as possible.

"Where are you going, Daroga?"

"To get some tea?" he stated while scuttling further away.

"Come now, Nadir, don't you want to stay and observe my stunning self?"

"Ah, Erik…"

The Phantom held up his hand for silence,

"I think I will wear my new navy cravat today."

He disappeared into the closet and the Persian could hear him rummaging around.

A couple of handkerchiefs flew from the closet and landed a few feet from Nadir. One piece of fabric caught his eye. It was made of lemon silk with bright green polka dots on it. Curious, he reached down, plucked it up, and carefully approached the opening to the closet.

"Erik, may I ask exactly what you are doing with this?"

The Opera Ghost raised his head and stared at the piece of fabric.

"That was acquired on a rather…disturbing…trip to Italy." He reached up and grabbed the swathe of fabric and stuffed it into a corner. "I have no desire to go into details but if memory serves me correctly it came to me in a rather interesting turn of events involving an old wine bottle and a pair of lederhosen."

After hearing this, the Persian whipped around and hastily fled the room.

A few minutes later, the Phantom emerged from the closet cravat-less and scowling.

_Psychoanalysis of Erik 101: You see, according to his nature, the Erik can go from jumping for joy (highly unlikely, but it makes a good comparison) to psycho murderer in exactly .012562 seconds (believe me, I've timed it). This is partly caused by his imagination, which is prone to jumping to conclusions, his morbid and pessimistic attitude, and his Phantominess in general. While the two examples stated above are extremes there are milder mood swings that he can undergo. For example, if he was writing a letter to the managers he might be in a jovial mood but if while he was sealing the letter he managed to accidentally fling some wax onto his pants from that gigantic skull seal he might be plunged into a mad fit of rage and then start destroying everything around so he could vent his pain onto…(That didn't turn out very well, did it?) (…ahem…) Generally speaking, the Erik does not have small mood swings. He tends to go from one extremely passionate mood to another. Therefore, it was only inevitable that the Erik would set his sights on the Persian._

_"Daroga,"_ the Phantom's menacing voice broke through the silence of the lair.

The Persian's head snapped up from where it was bent over a tea tray in the kitchen.

_"You evil, deceiving, little worm! You lout!"_

He was practically screaming now, and Nadir, sensing danger, decided to make a run for it.

The poor dear got as far as the kitchen door before he was snatched up by what seemed to be a living shadow and roughly deposited onto a couch in the sitting room.

"You said I was stunning." Erik was pacing in front of him. He stopped and faced the Persian, "Did you not say I was stunning?"

Warily, he answered, "Yes."

_"You lie!"_

Nadir tried to scramble up, but the Phantom shoved him back down.

"Erik, please be reasonable."

"Why should I?"

He took a few steps forward and leaned in, placing his hands on either side of Nadir and lowering his masked face in front of him.

"I have caught your bluff, sniffed out your deception. It is very ungentlemanly of you, Nadir. I am surprised."

By this point, the Persian was cringing.

"Erik, I have no idea what you are talking about. Why would I deceive you?"

"I have come to the conclusion that I cannot possibly look good. I don't know what came over me, but I was most certainly deceiving myself into thinking that I looked anything but a monster. And since I now know what I did I have realized that you cannot possibly have told me the truth."

He narrowed his eyes and glared at the Persian.

Nadir had sunk down into the cushions, his rational detective's mind taking over.

"Erik I didn't lie to you."

The Phantom snorted and made to say something but the Persian cut him off, saying in a reasonable and logical tone,

"I merely stated the _obvious_. You really do dress impeccably."

The Opera Ghost hissed,

_"And what about my face?"_

"You never asked me about your face, Erik. All you wanted my opinion on was how your clothes looked."

Erik, deflated, pushed himself away from the couch and stalked over to the fireplace on the opposite wall. He leaned against the mantel, appearing to Nadir to be deep in thought.

In truth, the Phantom was floundering. Grasping at excuses to keep his anger afloat, he rescued one of the few ideas that were nosily banging around in his head at the moment. Without turning around he said,

"How did you get into my house Daroga?"

"And," he said, turning his head in the Persian's direction, "more importantly, how did you get across the lake?"

Nadir reddened but refused to say anything.

"How?"

The now irate Phantom turned and began to slowly pace toward the man sitting very uncomfortably on the sofa.

The Persian, who was looking down at the carpet muttered,

"You didn't answer your doorbell."

"Didn't answer my doorbell, eh?"

Nadir could now see Erik's shiny black shoes in front of him.

"So that's your excuse." He snorted disdainfully.

"I would like to see this contrivance that got you across my lake."

The shoes twirled around and the Persian looked up in time to see Erik walk through the door. He gave a shout and hurried after the now absent figure.

He found him on the shore of the lake waiting, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, and foot firmly planted on a soggy piece of cardboard. The anger weighing down his features before was replaced with an amused expression.

Nadir came forward, intent on rescuing his cardboard, but stopped short as Erik spoke,

"How _embarrassing_. I have to wonder why you would go through all this trouble to get to my humble abode."

"To spy on me perhaps?"

A dark look passed over the Phantom's face.

"Or did you have a more innocent reason?"

Nadir looked even redder.

"Well?" the Opera Ghost said staring intently at the Persian.

The only sound for a few expectant seconds was that of Erik's fingers tapping a rhythm on his arm. Then Nadir spoke,

"I just wanted to surprise you, Erik."

Both eyebrows were raised this time.

"I thought it would be nice for a change for me to catch you off guard rather than the other way around."

He silently added, _and to do something without you knowing about it, too_.

In .012562 seconds flat the Phantom's expression went from amused to extremely frightening.

"Why would you do something with that idiotic of an intention, Daroga? You know I value my privacy."

He took a menacing step forward.

"If I _ever_ find you wandering around here without a _very_ good purpose I can assure you that you will find yourself at the end of my lasso."

For good effect, he stealthily took the lasso out of his pocket and dangled it in the Persian's face. Nadir gasped and backed up, a shaking hand held above his head.

The Opera Ghost shot a death glare at the Persian and, giving the piece of catgut one last violent shake, made it disappear.

"Now, I think I will let you get all the way back on this."

He kicked the cardboard in Nadir's direction.

"And don't worry," he glanced at the dock, "I've removed the little obstacle of the boat," he snickered, "just incase you are tempted."

With this he turned and walked away, leaving a very distressed looking Persian behind.

Nadir went to the water's edge and looked around.

No boat.

He turned back and looked for Erik. All that he saw was the silent darkness of the lake.

The Phantom had disappeared.


	3. Poodles and Mischief

Disclaimer: I take full credit for what me and my mind come up with – things such as characters, bits of exploding scenery, etc. – the rest I give due credit to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and Susan Kay.

**Poodles and Mischief**

The Opera Ghost was crouching on a catwalk playing with his lasso.

Carefully, he lowered it down just enough that it wouldn't alert any passers-by and then he waited. When someone came by he swiftly dipped it down and then yanked it back up, catching various items in the process. These trophies he put in a small but growing pile next to him. Among his prizes were an array of hats, ballet slippers, a wrench, a scarf, and a pair of glasses.

His most prized of the bunch, though, was a fluffy fox fur wrap pulled right off of Carlotta's haughty shoulders.

Upon finding her precious "foxies" gone, she exploded into anger, storming around the stage, threatening to quit, and sending the ballet rats scurrying away in fright.

Once she had made an entire circuit of the main part of the theatre she stopped mid stage. Busy huffing, puffing, glaring, and slapping anyone who came near she didn't notice the little black ball of fluff that had somehow escaped its handler and came scampering towards her, intent on finding refuge with its mistress.

She felt something brush against her dress, and highly irritated, shooed it away with her foot. She turned, drawing in a breath in order to continue screeching, when she felt it again.

This time without hesitation she gave the annoyance a firm kick, sending the poodle slipping, sliding, and tumbling across the stage.

Shocked and confused, the animal slid to a stop and then sat there cowering as the handler came rushing onto the stage. Spotting her charge, she breezed past Carlotta & Co. and stopped in front of the little ball of fluff.

She reached for it.

Just as she was about to scoop it up, it looked at her with large watery brown eyes that seemed to say, _I've had enough_ and then it bounded off, heading straight for Carlotta.

The diva, now aware of what was happening, watched the dog with trepidation.

It scooted up to her and stared.

Unsure of what the little pest wanted, she huffed out,

"Nice-a-doggy." and then made to turn away.

Before she could, however, the puffball calmly lifted its leg and let go a stream of yellow fluid right onto the front of her skirt.

Carlotta shrieked and started babbling incoherently as she watched, stunned, as her dress was ruined.

Unbeknownst to her and the rest of the audience of this little spectacle, a catwalk high above the stage was swaying dangerously to and fro.

The Phantom was kneeling with his mask pressed up against the rough wood underneath him, his arms wrapped around his middle, and his entire body shaking in silent laughter.

_Finally something worthwhile to watch! I guess good things really do come to those who wait, or in this case, suffer._

He poked his head over the edge of the board, intent on observing the chaos below.

Carlotta was flanked by attendants, screaming at the top of her lungs in a combination of French and Italian about how she was going to leave the undeserving theatre, fire all of her attendants for not doing their jobs, and go on to greater fame and glory in either Vienna or London.

A stagehand was rushing around trying to catch the poodle, which was attempting to make a break for freedom by jogging through scenery and dodging various onlookers.

_Maybe I should adopt that dog for its achievement._

The Phantom smirked and settled back into a more comfortable position.

Suddenly, there was a slam of doors and the managers appeared in the main entrance of the theatre. Quite out of breath, Andre and Firmin trotted up the isle and wheezed onto the stage. Firmin rushed to the irate singer,

"_What has happened_, my diva?"

Letting out an aggravated breath, Carlotta pointed at the stain on her dress.

"I 'ave a-just been HUMIL-I-A-TED!"

She turned towards the dog.

"I a-want-a that pest _gone_!"

"Yes, yes, whatever you wish, my lady."

Andre motioned for the stagehands to get to it. They all corned the puffball and one got a hold of its collar. It struggled valiantly, but in the end it was dragged towards the back of the stage and then out of sight.

Carlotta glared at her two employers.

"I am a-leaving thees theatre! Arivaderchi."

Abruptly, she about-faced and strode toward the makeshift stairs in front of the stage.

Watching from above, the Phantom almost cackled with glee. _Oh happy day! That tone-deaf cow will finally rid herself of my opera house!_

On the stage, Andre and Firmin shared a glance of exasperation and then hurried after her.

"Great diva! Do not leave us!" Andre shouted.

"Yes! We need you! You are our goddess of song," his partner added.

"Our shining star of beauty!"

"The light of the stage,"

"and the love of all of Paris!"

At this the diva turned around and waited for them to catch up. With arms crossed and foot a-tapping she bellowed,

"Well?"

Andre hovered around Carlotta and Firmin bowed.

"Please stay my lady." Firmin said, face still tilted towards the crimson carpeted isle to hide the almost pained expression on his face.

"Yes," Andre took the diva's arm and started to slowly nudge her back towards the stage,

"please!"

He leaned in and whispered in her ear,

"And there would be an increase in your salary, of course."

Firmin, who was listening attentively, started at this and from behind the pair's backs grimaced miserably at Andre. Begrudgingly but faithfully added,

"I wholly agree, you have performed beyond your best these past few operas, you most definitely are entitled to it."

Almost to the stage, now, Carlotta huffed yet again and then paused, clearly pretending to consider their flattery and promises. Then, with dramatic superiority, she said,

"I-a suppose-a that with a little comp-ra-mising something can-a be-a arranged."

Both managers knew without asking that they would be the ones doing the compromising.

"Hmm, with that-a figured out-a, I think I will retire to my-a dressing room, gentlemen. I am-a a bit-a tired from all of the hard work I 'ave been doing"

She paused to wave her hand in front of her face, but froze when she spotted something on her arm. Letting out a gasp she screeched,

"See! I sweat!"

Then she pushed her arm under the manager's noses.

They tried not to flinch but were unable to keep a trace of disgust off their faces because of the proximity of Carlotta's arm. They had sacrificed their ears for the sake of the opera, but were a little bit more unwilling to kill off their senses of smell due to the combination of Carlotta's cheap perfume and doggy urine.

The diva then let out a nonverbal screech and headed backstage, her entourage hesitantly following after her.

Up above, Erik was livid. It had started out to be such a good day, what with Nadir's visit, the poodle fiasco, and the prospect of Carlotta's resignation. Now, at least to the Opera Ghost, it felt as if Christmas had just been canceled. He stared down at the goings-on below and let out an aggravated sigh.

_And it was going so well! I should have known._

Goodie pile forgotten, he hefted himself up and descended to the ground floor slowly.

It was a dreary trip home, and even the memory of the poodle urinating on Carlotta's dress could not lift the Phantom from his funk.

_I will never be able to get rid of her. She is like a fat, wriggling leach in my side – very hard to get to and even harder to get out. And if I leave her alone for a minute her parasitic grasp will have deepened and strengthened._

He slunk into the sitting room where he immediately collapsed into a chair.

His head was completely empty – no music, no ideas – only a fading pain from his left wrist where he had gotten cloak burn.

_Psychoanalysis of Erik 101: A warning to all Phans – most say that the Erik is truly dangerous only when he is in his psycho mode, when he is extremely angry, or when he feels threatened in any way. This is not so! The Erik can be very dangerous to himself and anyone or anything when he is completely clueless. No ideas equal Phantom mischief, Phantom mischief equals evil mischief. The Erik can be extremely nasty and inventive when his mind is not busy with the usual things, or anything, for that matter._

Suddenly, he jumped up, overcome by a thought.

He frantically raced around the room, searching for the items necessary to relieve him of his foul mood.

From various cabinets he collected a pile of bottles, bags, needles, and various paraphernalia that contained some of the vilest things the Phantom could think of.

Without bothering to sit down he grabbed a bottle, uncorked it, and paused,

"Bottoms up." he whispered to the silent lair, and then tilted his head back and took a massive swig.


End file.
